“The Collector’s Curse”

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Do you have any collections?

I started with stamps—just a harmless small pack,
Then coins, then old teapots, then vinyls in stacks.
A bobblehead army now guards every shelf,
And I’ve named every Funko Pop after myself.

My garage is a jungle of retro décor,
With chairs from the ’60s and ten lava lamps more.
I hoard rare editions and comic book lore—
I once bought a toaster just for the drawer.

I scavenge at yard sales and bid like a loon,
I outspent a dentist last Saturday noon.
I’ve fought off an old lady for Beanie Baby bears,
And camped overnight for collectible chairs.

Yet somehow I’m restless, despite all this stuff,
My closet is full—but it’s never enough.
I whisper to trinkets with desperate affection:
“Complete me, complete me!” (They’re part of the collection).

But deep in my gut is a troubling notion:
That joy isn’t sold in collectible motion.
My treasures grow dusty, their shine fades away—
While peace and contentment keep drifting astray.

Scripture: Matthew 6:19–21 (ESV)
“Do not lay up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy and where thieves break in and steal,
but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust destroys and where thieves do not break in and steal.
For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”

Explanation:
This scripture reminds us that earthly possessions are temporary—they decay, get lost, or become obsolete. Storing up treasures in heaven means investing in things that have eternal value: love, kindness, generosity, faith, and service to others. Unlike material collections, these spiritual treasures can’t be stolen or devalued, and they keep our hearts focused on what truly matters. It’s okay to enjoy things here—but don’t let them own you. Heaven has no shelves, but it holds what counts.

2 Comments

  1. Oh, I felt this post in my bones. I, too, live under the benevolent dictatorship of many collections—some still active, others long abandoned like the ruins of old civilizations, interest eroded but inertia still intact. I have cabinets of curiosities both literal and digital. Some collections outlived their emotional appeal long ago, yet I kept adding… for completion? For hope of rekindled joy? I’m not even sure anymore.

    So I tried to pivot—started “collecting” things that don’t take up space: miles walked, books read, photos taken, thoughts journaled, ideas explored. Things that are, ideally, nourishing and free. But now I find myself curating these as if they were rare artifacts from the USS Cygnus in The Black Hole—tagged, dated, sorted, shelved.

    It’s like trading the burden of material clutter for the weight of time. The impulse to document is as relentless as Skynet: logical, persistent, and slightly terrifying. At what point does archiving your life become living your archive?

    Maybe there’s an Andy Dufresne-type redemption somewhere in this—like chipping away at a wall not to escape, but to uncover some deeper architecture of meaning. Or maybe we’re all just Data, rigging our gadgets to make sense of the world, cataloging the chaos one artifact at a time.

    Anyway, thank you for this. I feel seen. Or perhaps, more precisely, I feel… alphabetized.

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